Tom Piccirilli - The Last Kind Words

“Collie’s gotten us all involved in something bad already. Terry’s just doing right by his family.”

I got the sense that they both knew I was listening. I kept waiting for Gilmore to mention my taking the files and the incident at the Elbow Room.

My mother came out onto the porch to ask them if they wanted anything to eat. She didn’t notice me there in the dark corner of the kitchen. I felt like a kid again, playing a child’s game, hiding from the grown-ups and having difficulty understanding their intentions. Mal came in and got himself some leftover fried chicken, nodded to me, then went off to eat in front of the television.

Gilmore and my father continued talking about small somethings and next-to-nothings. Finally I heard Gilmore stand and move to the porch steps.

“You have a good evening, Pinsch.”

“You too.”

“Thanks again for the photos.”

My father kept up the geniality, but his voice sharpened the smallest degree. “Don’t mention it. Drive safe now.”

I got up and glanced out the window. Gilmore got into his car and waved. I was surprised to see my father lift his hand in response. After Gilmore drove off down the street, my old man stepped into the house. He immediately turned his head to where I sat. I asked, “What photos?”

“You shouldn’t have been listening, Terry.”

“You knew I was here. You wanted me to listen, Dad.” We stood in the shadows and faced each other. “What photos did you steal for him?”

“I didn’t steal any.” My old man sounded a little strained, maybe a little embarrassed. That worried me worse than almost anything that had happened so far. “I took some of his kids.”

“You staked out his ex-wife’s house?”

“It’s his house.”

He opened the fridge, drew out another beer but didn’t open it. The refrigerator light showed me a hint of his hidden pain. “Why would you do that? What’s he got on us?”

“Nothing. I did it because I know what it’s like for a man to lose his family. You think I wouldn’t have asked someone to take pictures of you on your ranch if I could’ve? Or Collie, even now?”

Mal walked in and deposited the chicken bones in the garbage. My father followed him into the living room. I moved to the kitchen table and continued to sit in the dark, wondering something I had never wondered="1 before. I wondered if my father was lying to me.

The house stank of boiled cabbage and chicken grease. I headed for my room and made it halfway up the stairs before I heard the phone ring. My mother answered and my belly tightened. She moved to the bottom of the steps and saw me there, held the phone out toward me with a slightly apprehensive expression, the same kind she wore when I was in junior high and some girl called the house. “For you.”

I was tired. I felt feverish. The stink was killing me. “Who?”

“Take it.”

It was my uncle Grey. He asked, “So, you busy?”

I hadn’t spoken to him in half a decade but he sounded like we’d shared an espresso twenty minutes ago.

I didn’t know how to answer. “Not really.”

“You hungry? Meet me at Cirque d’Outre. Nine o’clock.”

“Cirque d’Outre? The hell is that?”

“Torchy’s.”

Torchy’s was our in-joke for a restaurant down on the water in Glen Cove. Since the fifties it had been owned by various arms of the syndicate, changing hands every few years. The wiseguys insured it up the wazoo, opened it as a high-class establishment, brought in the yacht and sailboat crowd, and slowly skimmed off the top until they were so far in the red that they had to torch the place. It had been built up and burned down again under four names that I was aware of.

“How soon until the next fire?” I asked.

“A few months at least. You don’t have to worry about getting your toes roasted, you know those boys have never picked up a murder rap off a firebug scheme.”

I wanted to talk to Grey. I missed his action, his energy. He was already lightening the load I felt. “I’m not dressed for it.”

“So put on some nice clothes.”

“I don’t have any nice clothes that fit anymore.”

“You can raid my closet.”

“I don’t think I’m in the mood for a big night.”

“What big night? A chance to sit and relax. Break bread. Have a nice meal. Talk with a beautiful woman.”

“What woman?”

“You’ve been home for days and I haven’t seen you yet. Enough with the dodging out the back door. Nine o’clock sharp, right?”

“Sure.” I hung up.

My mother wafted in close, sponging down an already clean table. She kept her back to me. That meant she had something to say that she didn’t want to say but would eventually get around to if I stood where I was long enough. I hung back and waited.

She said, “Watch out for him.”

She spoke with almost no inflection. I couldn’t tell if she meant I should watch out for him or watch out for him . She didn’t look at me. I slid aside and she raised her chin. I tried to read her face and saw almost nothing there now. “What do you mean?”

“He’s been going out nights. More and more. And not just with the ladies. I think he’s working on some kind of scam.”

“nig;This is news?”

“It worries me.”

My mother had become a nervous woman, with good cause. Collie’s arrest, my abandonment, having to care for Gramp, Dale blossoming into a young woman and all the problems that presented. Now the chance that Mal and Grey were both getting ill. She was the strongest of us.

“What kind of scam?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But he gets that look in his eye like whenever one of you Rands is working a racket.”

“You’re a Rand too.”

“You male Rands,” she said. “You born Rands.”

“I’ll see if I can find anything out. It seems like he’s set up a double date for us tonight.”

She went to the sink. It was empty. There were some dishes on the drainboard drying. She looked like she wanted to keep busy. Her hand went to a clean glass and she put it in the cupboard. Then she moved it to the left. Then to the right. Then she closed the door and looked at another glass in the drainboard.

“Ma, it’ll be okay,” I said.

“He’ll be with that pretty reporter.”

“He’s probably just diverting her attention.”

“No, he’s trying to hold on to his youth with that one. He likes how interested she is in him.”

“That’s a bad thing?”

“Yes, because she’s more interested in the story. That’s why he’s bringing you there, really. You’re part of it. She’ll have questions.”

“I know how to handle myself.”

“I know you do.”

She turned and looked at me, and a charge passed through the air between us. She was trying to shield and guard me through her own force of will. Her hands wandered to my collar, then my throat, and then she placed both palms firmly on my cheeks and kind of smooshed me. My lips pursed like a fish and she gave me a quick kiss. Then she ruffled my hair like I was six years old and left me alone with my own trepidation.

I took a shower and then checked Grey’s room. He was a clothes horse. He had at least twenty tailored suits in his closet. I found a classic white shirt and black suit combo that fit almost perfectly. When I shot my cuffs I looked like any other Rat Pack wannabe circa 1962.

He had a separate cabinet for ties. There were hundreds. I didn’t see the point. After you got through about twenty, they all started to look alike. He had a real fetish. Or maybe his various women all gave him the same Christmas gift each year. I found a thin black silk one and grabbed a pair of shoes that pinched my heels only a little.